


Leftovers

by Trotzkopf



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble collection from tumblr, M/M, romantic, several very small prompt replies, snigger inducing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 04:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trotzkopf/pseuds/Trotzkopf
Summary: A collection of several prompt replies from my now retired Discworld tumblr. Some are very short and grouped together in one chapter.





	1. “I’m not shy. I’m just examining my prey.”

“He’s intriguing, I give you that,” Lady Margolotta remarked as she suddenly appeared by Havelock’s elbow. He managed not to flinch. 

Raising his glass, he replied, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” before taking a sip of champagne. 

She snorted. “Ah, you’re still as amusing as you vere thirty years ago. Remember Duke Libatrine’s son, vhat vas his name again?”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uncouth, subtle as a brick and suicidally brave. Not to mention quite ruggedly handsome. You vere just as coy around Brian as you are around _him_.” 

“Byron,” Havelock corrected her before he could stop himself. 

Margolotta smirked. “And as I recall, _Byron_ vas just as taken vith you, he just didn’t know how to show it until you finally talked to him. Vhy don’t you go over there and tell the commander how you feel?”

Havelock’s blue eyes met hers for a moment before a gruff voice from the other end of the room drew his attention again. When he felt her staring at his profile, he said, “I assure you I’m doing this for the sake of the city, nothing more.” 

“Uh-hm.”

“Vimes has a very unique diplomatic style. It gets results, but has sometimes unforeseen side effects. I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Yes. And?”

“He’s married.”

“Since vhen has that ever stopped anyone?”

He growled under his breath. “Dear friend, will you kindly let this topic go?”

When she grinned at him in return, Havelock sighed and walked away, pointedly not looking at the commander and thus failing to notice how Vimes eyes followed his every move despite his ongoing dispute with another diplomat. 

Margolotta chuckled. “Ah yes, still shy.” 

The End


	2. “Somebody’s cranky.” “Somebody needs to shut up.”

A fly dislodged from Slant’s throat and took off as the assembled citizens filed out of the Ratschamber. Vetinari and Vimes stayed in their seats and waited until the doors closed with a thud. 

“That could have gone better,” the commander said, peering past the axe he had embedded in the table a few years back. 

“You don’t say,” Vetinari muttered behind his steepled hands. He sighed and closed his eyes. 

The fly buzzed. 

“I mean they basically told you to shove it up your-“

“I _know_ , Vimes. I was there,” Vetinari interjected, waving his hand at the pestering insect.

“That’s got to be a first.” Vimes couldn’t quite keep the mirth out of his tone. “Are you losing your touch, your lordship?”

The Patrician shot him a look which would have reduced a lesser man to ashes. 

Unimpressed, Vimes soldiered on. “Maybe Slant was right and Lipwig should-“

The hilt of the dagger shuddered in the wood. A keen observer would have noticed two translucent wings flaking to the floor. 

“Point made, sir. Touched a nerve, eh?” The commander smirked. 

“Vimes?”

“Yes.”

“Do shut up.”

The End


	3. “Can I kiss you?”

“It’s ridiculous, is what this is!” 

“Quite so, and yet, here we are,” Vetinari sighed.

“Elves! In my city! The nerve of these…these…”

“Beings from another realm?” 

“I was going to say assholes,” snarled Vimes, still struggling against the magical rope that had fused them together chest to chest. 

“Commander, if you-“ Vetinari tried, but Vimes wasn’t listening.

“How dare they! Bloody magic, why is this so…oh shit!“

They hit the carpet with a thud.

“Ouch,” Vetinari remarked. 

“…Sorry, sir.” 

Vimes leaned to the left and rolled them onto their sides. Now their noses were almost touching. 

“I think at this point, there’s only one course of action left?” 

“Scream for help?” 

Vetinari sighed again. “You know what the elf said. The only way to get out of this is to-“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Vimes interjected, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Not quite,” Vetinari smirked. 

“You can’t be serious!”

“Would you rather stay like this until death do us part?”

There was but the briefest of hesitations before Sam shook his head. 

“Then, may I?”

But it was Vimes, eyes still closed, who pressed their lips together. 

The rope evaporated instantly. 

The kiss, however, lasted several heartbeats longer. 

The End


	4. “Take my jacket. It’s cold outside.”

“Good evening, your grace,” said the Patrician without turning around. He would recognize that particular mixture of scents anywhere. No matter how many bubble bath he took, you just couldn’t scrub the copper out of the duke. 

“More like good morning, sir,” Vimes replied. “Where’s your coach? You’re not getting any younger.” 

Vetinari looked slightly taken aback. “Have you looked in a mirror lately, your grace? Stones. Glass houses and so on. I’m sure you can work it out. And now, if you’ll excuse me-“ He reached for the door and managed to pry it open an inch before Vimes slammed it shut. 

Vetinari turned very slowly, and stared. Vimes stared back.

“Sam.“ There was a hint of a warning in that single syllable, which was met with two syllables full of defiance.

“Havelock.“ 

The Patrician sighed. 

“Would you care for a stroll?”

Vimes grinned, “No, but-” 

Vetinari made to open the door again when he felt something heavy land on his shoulders.

“-at least take my coat, it’s bloody freezing out there.”

When he was sure no-one could see him, Vetinari smiled as he wrapped the coat more tightly around himself. It smelt like leather, tobacco and justice.

The End


	5. “If I die, I’m never speaking to you again.”

“You’re quite certain of this?” Vetinari raised his eyebrow. 

“Yes, sir,” Vimes replied, for once meeting the cold, blue stare. 

The Patrician focused his gaze outside the window and took a deep breath before he spoke. “In that case, I think it best for me to volunteer as bait.” A lightning fast smile followed the statement. 

“I agree.”

The smile vanished. “Pardon?” 

“I said,” Vimes repeated, “I agree, sir. Best course of action.” 

“Ah. Capital. For once, we’re in agreement.” The Patrician tried to muster another smile, but the elusive bugger deserted before he could be deployed to the front line, leaving Vetinari standing with a peculiar expression, somewhere between constipation and bemusement. 

Vimes took a few steps forward until he was almost within touching distance, twirling his helmet between his hands. 

“I know this is unconventional-“

The Patrician nodded. “I trust you to do your job, commander.”

“Thank you, sir.“

“Besides,” Vetinari added, “I know you do so love our daily chats.”

“Immensely, sir.” 

“And if I die, we’ll never have the pleasure again.” 

“Well, I guess I could learn to live with disappointment.”

Vetinari shot Vimes a look. “Hilarious.”

“You’ll be safe, I promise.”

Havelock smiled. “I know.” 

The End


	6. Kiss on a scar

Lord Vetinari stopped himself before his fingers could make contact. The commander had on several occasions made it quite clear he didn’t like it when people touched his face. Therefore, it was all the more surprising when Vimes snatched Vetinari’s wrist and pulled his hand closer until his fingertips brushed over Sam’s cheekbone. The corner of Vimes’ mouth lifted ever so slightly. 

“Stunned is a good look on you,” Sam sniggered and kissed Havelock’s fingertips as they ghosted over his lips. 

The Patrician inclined his head, mouth pressed into a line and eyes narrowed as one might see on the face of a man trying very hard not to smile and not quite succeeding. The fingers stopped but didn’t move away. 

“Why?” Vetinari asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific, your lordship. Why am I allowing this? Why you? Why now?”

“Yes,” came the somewhat predictable, smart remark. 

With a twist of his hip, Sam rolled them so they could lie side by side on the narrow bed. Still intrigued, almost greedy or maybe fascinated with the novelty, Havelock’s hand immediately resumed mapping every line on the commander’s face. 

“I don’t know,” Sam lied. The hand stopped again. 

“I find that hard to believe, Sir Samuel.” 

_Sometimes Sam needed a push._

There was a long pause before Vimes said, “That’s not my name. Try again.”

Vetinari lifted his head an inch off the pillow. His lips moved but nothing came out. Instead, the Patrician leaned closer and brushed his mouth over the scar Vimes had acquired in the past, kissing along it and down Sam’s chin, sucking on the sensitive skin of his throat. 

“What was that?” Vimes asked as he felt a puff of breath against his neck.

Havelock raised his head and kissed his face again. “I sometimes wonder whether I should end this.” 

_Sometimes one had to push quite hard to get to the core of things with Sam._

Vimes twisted away, his hands holding Vetinari’s face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t. You. Dare.” 

“Are you telling me I can’t?” 

“You can if you don’t want me.” He pressed their lips together. “But not because you get scared of this.” 

Vetinari’s nostrils flared. He closed his eyes. His hands snatched Vimes’ wrists and gently but firmly pulled them away. “We’re getting too close.”

_Sometimes it was difficult to estimate how far would be too far, but Havelock knew it was always worth the risk, especially when there was so much at stake._

Within a heartbeat, Vetinari’s spine was against the mattress and Sam on top of him. “Havelock.” 

Vetinari’s eyes flew open. Vimes lowered his head and kissed the faint line close to his heart where another assassin attempt had failed to part him from this life. They just kept coming and yet Havelock wondered whether the man lying on top of him - the one who stopped most of the would-be murderers - would be his undoing in the end. Once upon a time, he had promised as much. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have allowed Vetinari anywhere near him, let alone in his bed. Once upon he time, he wouldn’t have tried to lie that he had let him into his—

“You know damn well we’re past “too close”,” Sam said, pressing his face against Havelock’s cheek. “Too close was six months ago. This is—“

“Sam,” Havelock smiled. “I love you too.”

The End


	7. Three kisses in 600 words

**Discreetly**  

“Your grace,” the Patrician greeted with a nod of his head.

“Your lordship,” Vimes replied in kind. His hands balled into fists at his side, but he kept his face blank. 

Around them people chattered and laughed, merely background noise while they stared at each other, both defiantly refusing to look away first. 

“I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?” 

Sam’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing and only pointed to a door at the end of the room. They made their way through the crowd and slipped into a deserted corridor. 

“What do you—“ Sam began, only to be interrupted. 

“It was a mistake.”

Vimes crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Was it now? Which part, I wonder?”

The Patrician moved closer. Vimes stayed put and glared at him. 

“My behaviour was inexcusable. I should not have put you in this position. It was a moment of weakness and it won’t—“

With the speed and tenacity he usually reserved for chasing criminals, Sam took Havelock’s face and kissed him until all protest seized and they were leaning against the closed door for support. 

“You were saying?” Sam chuckled before they kissed again. 

The End

*~*

**In a rush of adrenaline**

The dagger sailed past his ear and into the face of his would-be killer. Sam Vimes had barely time to register it before another assailant tried his best to slice him in half. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing in a fight to the death. Vimes used the momentum to twist behind the attacker before he ended the thug’s life. 

The commander turned just in time to see the Patrician pull his stiletto out of a body and hide it on his person in one fluent movement. There was blood splatter on his pale skin. 

“Are you hurt?” Vimes wheezed.

Vetinari moved closer with long strides, shaking his head. He stopped right in front of Sam, shoulders heaving. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, commander.” 

Before common sense could get in the way, Sam reached up and pulled Havelock into a kiss. Something cluttered to the floor when they moved until Vimes’ back hit a wall, a wonderful solid thing, making it easier for Havelock to grind their bodies together. 

Voices echoed through the corridor just outside. 

“We’re…about to be rescued.”

“Oh dear, I fear it’s too late for that,” Havelock grinned against Sam’s lips before they reluctantly moved apart. 

The End

*~*

**Because they’re running out of time**

Bittersweet double drabble is bittersweet.

Sam Vimes reached out and held on as the world began to crumble around him. 

“What’s going on?”

“We did it,” a familiar voice said. 

The commander looked up and into the cold, blue eyes of Havelock Vetinari. He was startled when he noticed his hand was bunching the front of his lordship’s coat. He swallowed and tried to let go, only to find Havelock’s hand had closed around his wrist, holding it in place. 

“Wha—“

“I’m sorry.”

_“Since when does the bastard apologise?”_ Vimes thought before the Patrician’s surprisingly soft lips touched his. 

A part of him vaguely understood this was not to be. Then why was he groaning into the kiss, parting his lips and allowing the clever tongue to slip into his mouth? When had his hand moved? His fingers were combing through dark hair, pulling the taller man closer. 

“What’s going on?” Vimes mumbled against Vetinari’s lips.

Havelock bumped their foreheads together. “You’re waking up.”

“Waking…up…is this a dream?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Sam asked. His stomach dropped. If the Patrician was really here then—

“Yes, but we won’t remember.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Havelock kissed him again before he whispered, “Goodbye, Sam.”

The End


	8. Four for four hundred

**“Take me for a fool? I can balance a spoon on my nose, who is the real fool now?”**

“What the fu—”

“Commander,” Vetinari interjected sharply, “your paranoia serves you well. But quite frankly, your little outburst during the meeting made you look like a fool.”

To Havelock’s bemusement, Sam snatched a teaspoon off the desk and balanced it perfectly on his nose before he tossed it back on the table. 

“See, that’s what you looked like in there, only you did it with my city and sodding words. It was bloody obvious. Who’s the fool now?” Vimes snarled.

Vetinari blinked. “I’m sure I could never look this…”

“Foolish?”

Havelock licked his lips. “ _Cute_.”

Sam cursed and flushed crimson.

The End

*~*

**“What? I can’t send a message to the enemy?”**

Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain to me again why you punched the ambassador’s brother in the face?”

Vimes shrugged, “He was threatening to encroach on our territory.”

Vetinari raised an eyebrow, Sam’s face went wooden.

“Vimes, what _exactly_ did the man say?”

“Can’t quite recall, sir.”

Vetinari tapped his fingers on the desk. “I can’t fix this without the truth.”

Their eyes met, Vimes leaned forward and hissed, “He said you had a fine arse and it would be his before the end of the week.”

Havelock blinked when Sam added, “And we both know it’s mine.” 

The End

*~*

**“I hate you. Why are you here?”**

There was a tap-tap on the window.

“Unbelievable,” Vimes muttered to himself, watching the figure dressed in dark green jump into the room. Havelock pulled the cloth covering his face down.

“Commander, we need to talk.”

“I disagree!” 

“Sam—“

“NO!”

Vetinari followed him into the next room. “—I liked it.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Sam cursed, keeping his back turned, he growled, “I hate you,” but there was no real venom in it. 

A shiver ran up his spine when Havelock’s breath ghosted across his neck, “But you liked the kiss.”

Defeated, Sam sighed, “I liked the kiss.”

The End

*~*

**“Can you let me twirl my knife in peace?”**

Downey’s new protege, who had fiddled with his bejewelled dagger throughout the meeting, and Vetinari’s eyes met. Suddenly, Havelock was holding a simple blade, spinning it so fast it looked like the Patrician was holding a disc of gleaming death before it vanished again. The young assassin’s chin sagged before he blushed crimson and hurried away, hands balled into fists. 

Havelock caught Sam’s eye at the other end of the table and said, “My apologies—“

“It’s not like you to let a little tit get under your skin like that.”

Havelock sighed, clearly annoyed, ”True, but he was _so_ embarrassing.”  

The End


	9. Hurting Hand

“Good morning, commander, take a seat,” the Patrician greeted without looking up from his paperwork. 

“Sir,” Vimes replied and sat down, suppressing a snigger. 

Only a year ago, Sam would have rather eaten his boots than sit in the presence of his lordship. But a lot could happen in a year, and a lot had happened. Their relationship had shifted from tyrant employer and recalcitrant employee to something close to unlikely friends, which was why Sam gratefully took the seat, especially after the night he had just had. 

“Care to share what’s so amusing?” Vetinari asked, scribbling in the margins of a report. 

“I wasn’t saying anything.” 

“No, but your breathing changes when you—“ The Patrician’s mouth snapped shut as he looked up.

Vimes’ eye was a mess. Although not very swollen, the black and purple bruising spread from the socket halfway down his cheek. 

“It’s nothing,” Vimes lied in answer to the unspoken question. He had a sodding headache - not from the injury, but from the paperwork he had got on with while applying icepacks to his face for the rest of the night. Carrot’s suggestion, of course. His captain had looked at him with that big, innocent, and worst of all, enthusiastic smile, “This is a good opportunity to read the reports from last months, and sign the T1T5 and A55 forms that have been piling up, Mister Vimes.”  

“I take it the offending party is in custody?” Vetinari asked. 

There was a hint of a growl before Sam said, “No, slippery bastard got away. Didn’t see his face either.”

The Patrician paused for a fraction of a second before he carefully put the quill down. Vimes being Vimes noticed it and grunted, “It wasn’t your run in the mill kind of bastard. He was fast. Strong. It felt like being hit with a crowbar and I swear he held back for some reason.” 

“How do you know it was a he?”

It was a bit hard to tell, but it seemed that underneath the shiner and stubble, Vimes’ cheeks were reddening before he replied, “Uhm…it was a close quarters fight. I could…tell.” 

He didn’t mention how they had traded blows in the narrow alleyway. How a part of him had enjoyed their strange dance. His opponent had been just as good as him if not better. They had ended up with the other man on top, pinning Sam to the cobbles. The masked face hovering just an inch away from his. 

There had been that strange moment when they had just stopped, chests heaving. Their bodies aligned. Vimes had to bite back a gasp of shock and unbidden arousal as he felt a hard cock sliding against his even through the layers of fabric, and for a surreal second, Sam thought he knew exactly who the man was. It had been on the tip of his tongue, but then his opponent had jumped to his feet like a cat out of water and disappeared, leaving Sam aching and wondering what that had been all about.

“I see,” Vetinari replied. “Are you going to pursue him?”

“Pardon?” This time Sam’s blush was more apparent because it extended to the roots of his hair.

They stared at each other before the Patrician said, “I meant, are you going to try and apprehend him for assaulting an officer of the Watch and whatever other crime he committed?”

“There was no evidence of crime. I think I just showed up at an unexpected moment and got in the way when he tried to flee the scene. I think he just didn’t want _me_ to know he had been there for whatever reason…” Vimes frowned and stared at nothing as his voice trailed off. 

“You think it was personal?”

“It felt pretty personal at the time.”

Vetinari cleared his throat and said, “Well, we cannot have people assault officers just because they feel like it. It sets a bad precedent.” 

The commander shrugged. “No witnesses and he didn’t strike me as the bragging sort. In fact, I doubt I shall ever see him again.” He wasn’t even surprised when his stomach flipped as the words left his mouth. 

“Maybe that’s for the best.” Vetinari said in a conciliatory tone, but the accompanying smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

Vimes grunted. “Hm. Well, even if I wanted to, I have no way to identify him.” He didn’t add, “Unless he climbs on top of me and pushes his crouch against mine again, and even then it would be guesswork at best. Good grief, there’s a new definition of line-up of suspects.” 

Later on, Sam would swear he had no idea why he said what he said next, “Why, he could be sitting across from me and I’d never know.” 

There was no obvious stiffening of the spine or catching of breath. The Patrician just sat behind his desk and stared back at him, left hand next the quill where he had put it. 

As if stung by a bee, Vimes got up, bumping against the desk and upsetting the inkwell. Havelock’s left hand shot forward, steadying it before it could ruin a morning’s worth of work. 

“Sorry,” Vimes apologised, eyes darting from the inkwell to Vetinari’s face to where his right hand - _his writing hand_ \- would be visible if it hadn’t been resting out of sight on Havelock’s thigh. The bandage stretched against Vetinari’s knuckles as he flexed it. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the colour around the cloth matching Sam’s eye. 

“If you’ll excuse me, your lordship. I had a rather trying night. Nothing else to report that can’t wait.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Get some rest.” 

Sam saluted when Havelock added, “I hope your eye isn’t going to interfere with your duties.” 

Already on the threshold, Sam turned with a thoughtful expression. “It’s fine. It was just…a surprise. I know the city is in a good hand even if I’m a bit blind to what’s right in front of me. If you…if you want, I’ll keep you up to date on that front, just maybe give it a few days?” 

Vetinari’s answer made Vimes’ stomach flip again.

“Please do.” 

The End 


	10. The inevitable Coffee Shop AU

“I ordered a medium, iced, vanilla latte with low-fat soy and no sugar and I always get Genuan soy, this is most certainly,” the hipster made a face, “Lancre, and in what world is this a quarter ice, it’s barely a fifth, plus if this is low-fat than I’m the queen of Djelibeybi,” the high-strung customer whined, repeatedly thrusting the offending drink into the apologetic barista’s face.

“Sort Mr Lavish out for me, Sam, and you’re hired,” the tall - handsome - coffee shop manager said with a deadpan expression, but his cold, blue eyes sparkled with something that screamed challenge and mischief and made Sam wonder whether he wanted to kiss or kill the man as he already stood up and walked over to where the scene unfolded.

“Excuse me, “ Sam said, hand ready to catch the cup as the surprised hipster whirled to face him, “we’re of course very sorry your order is below your expectations and we’ll happily redo it for you, but if you don’t change your tone, I’ll see to it personally you’ll only be able to drink with a straw for the foreseeable future, provided I first manage to pry your ugly mug out of your arse where it apparently lives.”

The whole shop burst into thunderous applause once Mr Lavish had made a hasty exit while Sam rubbed the back of his head; his mouth had gotten the better of him yet again, surely the manager wouldn't…

“Well done,” Havelock suddenly whispered into his ear - how had he snuck up on him? “Your first shift starts at 6:30am tomorrow.”

The End


	11. “Where are you?”

“Are you sure, Havelock?” Ridcully asked for what must have been the fifth time in the last thirty minutes. 

Vetinari didn’t even bother to reply any more as he took off his shoes and frock, and climbed onto the bed next to the prone form of Sam Vimes. 

“Only, this has never been done before. Not exactly like this at any rate.”

Vetinari reclined. “Mister Stibbons explained it quite plainly that he will only come back to us if I go and fetch him. Proceed.” 

The archchancellor stroked his beard, “But you’re the Patrician, if you get lost in there—“

Vetinari turned his head and looked at Sam’s ashen face. “Have a little faith, Mustrum.”

“You know that’s my brother’s area of expertise, as is reading the last rites.”

“Then, let’s make sure we won’t be needing his services today.” 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the archchancellor murmured and began the incantation. 

A flash of green light later, Vetinari stood in the damp, dark streets of Ankh-Morpork. 

He looked down and was mildly surprised to see he was wearing his assassin gear. But he smiled when he flexed his leg and it didn’t hurt at all. 

“So, Sam Vimes, this is your dream. Where would you go?” 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but evidently even imaginary rain could soak you through to the skin, and there was still no sign of Sam or anyone else for that matter.

Maybe he could cover more ground from the roofs? But when he tried to climb a drain pipe, it just seemed to go on forever. Of course, watchmen didn’t usually go for roof chases if they didn’t have to. The cobbled streets were their beat, so there was no need to envision a world beyond street level. 

Vetinari jumped back down and suppressed a frustrated sigh. He was going about this the wrong way. This was a dream, or possibly a nightmare. What did people do in their dreams? 

Face their fears - Vimes did that every day. He lived for it, but it didn’t give Havelock any clues where he might be because what Sam feared most was himself, and they were already inside his head so to speak. 

Another option was, give into their desires. However, Sam had already done that. They had been together for months now. Besides the atmosphere of this place was hardly erotic, and the only anxiety inducing part was that someone other than Sybil, who had given them her blessing, might find out about them. Admittedly, that had happened. 

When Sam had fallen under the spell at the grand opening of the Tsortean exhibition at the museum, the wizards had determined only the person closest to the victim’s heart could get them to come back. They had conjured a wisp and it had stopped in front of the Patrician. You could have heard the veritable pin drop after that little revelation. But Sam didn’t know that, so it was unlikely to play a big role here. 

How about relive the past? This dreamscape did have the heavy oppressive feeling of the bad old days during Lord Winder’s reign. 

Vetinari nodded to himself. Treacle Mine Road. Elm Street, left into The Pitts, left again into The Scours. The first beat of Lance-Constable Vimes. Sam had told him once during one of their late night conversations when they talked about everything and nothing, sweat cooling on heated skin. 

Yes. That’s where he would be, walking the familiar path. 

When Vetinari turned from The Pitts into Elm Street, he almost barrelled into a figure in a heavy oilskin cloak, holding a lantern, rain dripping off his battered helmet. 

“Sam!” 

The commander lifted the lantern higher. His eyes flew open, “Who are you? You can’t be here! Oh gods…Run! It’s going to find me soon. It always does.” 

Vetinari tried to seize Vimes’ shoulder but the commander flinched, gripping the lantern harder, other hand going for the hilt of his sword. 

“I mean it. You— Look, you gotta go. It’s almost here, I can feel it.” 

“What is?” Vetinari asked.

“The beast! It’s— Bloody hell!” He dropped the lantern, pushed Havelock aside and drew his sword. 

Vetinari turned, daggers in hand and saw…nothing. 

“Sam!”

Vimes was trembling so hard, he had to hold his sword in both hands and it still wavered back and forth.

“Run, you bloody fool!” Vimes screamed at him.

Vetinari dropped the blades. He pulled his hood back. 

“Sam - come with me.” 

The commander glanced over his shoulders, eyes mad with terror. 

“What?” 

Havelock held out his gloved hand. 

“I—“ 

“Trust me, you’ve already chosen me.” 

Something flashed in Sam’s eyes. 

“Havelock?”

“Now!” 

The sword fell and, although he couldn’t see it, Vetinari heard the angry roar of the beast when Vimes’ hand touched his. 

He blinked. 

There was a groan next to him, drawing his attention. Even the small motion made him feel dizzy, but it was easily ignored because, there, next to him on the bed lay Sam Vimes and he was opening his eyes. 

“Welcome back!” Ridcully boomed, making Sam and Havelock wince.

“Thank you. May we have the room, please?” Vetinari requested.

“We really ought to check—“

“Five minutes, archchancellor.” Havelock insisted in his I-have-a-scorpion-pit-and-I’m-not-afraid-to-use-it tone. 

“Of course. Of course. Everyone out!” 

The door banged shut, making them wince again, and then they were alone. 

“What’s going on?” Sam rasped. “Why are we…” The sentence trailed off as Vimes lifted his left hand, Havelock’s fingers were still threaded through his. He sighed. 

“Do I even want to know?” The commander asked.

“Probably not.” 

“Tell me anyway,” Sam said, still staring at their joint hands. 

“You somehow activated an amulet from the Tsortean exhibition. It trapped you in your own nightmare.” 

“Bloody magic! Was there…rain?”

“You were lost for a little while.” Vetinari said, his fingers sliding against Sam’s. 

“But you found me.” Vimes looked at him. 

“Of course.”

“Because you’re a possessive sod and I can’t even escape you in my dreams, can I?” Sam growled with narrowed eyes, but there was no menace behind it. 

Vetinari smiled. “Possibly.”

They were quiet for a while until Vimes broke the silence with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

Havelock lifted Sam’s hand to his lips and replied, “No, thank you.”

“Thank me? Why?” 

“For choosing me.”

“I…what?” 

Vetinari chuckled. “Oh, nothing.”

He was already looking forward to Sam’s face when he would find out.

The End 


	12. Apodyopis - the act of mentally undressing someone

The music was adequate, the catering acceptable, and diplomatic goals had been achieved. 

“Well done,” the Patrician muttered to himself, pretending to sip champagne as he surveyed the crowd. 

Another evening of playing the grand game of politics was coming to an end, at least for him. The other guests would undoubtedly stay and get progressively more drunk and indiscrete as it was want to happen on these occasions, however, the Patrician preferred to spend his time in pursuit of more productive goals. Besides, there was a stack of reports waiting on his bedside table and he had a full schedule tomorrow. 

He was about to put his glass down and discretely take his leave when he spotted Commander Vimes being besieged by two young ladies. 

The Patrician pressed his lips together in an effort not to smile. Vimes had one girl on each arm, trying to drag him to the dance floor. Vetinari couldn’t hear them, but he could read the commander’s lips.

“No, really. Please let go, ladies. I do not dance. You can ask my wife. You know, the woman I’m married to, she’s right over—“ 

Vimes’ face went from mildly harassed to outraged when Lady Eorle pinched his butt. Although this was of course unacceptable, the Patrician couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the young lady. It was after all a very handsome rear, especially in those tights with that very short tunic. Still, she ought to have asked first.

“Madam! I will arrest you for assaulting an officer of the Watch if you do not step back and walk the other way, right this minute!” 

Lady Eorle pouted. Vetinari couldn’t see her reply, but Vimes’ face went wooden which was his cue to intervene. The Patrician quickly put his drink down and was about to walk over before things could get out of hand when he saw Sybil approach the scene. He relaxed. 

“Sam, would you care to dance?” 

The young nobles curtsied before the duchess but stuck their tongues out at her behind her back when she and the commander walked to the dance floor. Vimes looked pathetically grateful for a few seconds before he realised he had to actually dance, something he detested. Vetinari could see why. He was awful at it. It was only due to Lady Sybil’s exceptional leading skills that Sam wasn’t falling over his own feet, even if it meant he was treading on hers ever so often. 

This spectacle did, however, not distract form the fact that those tights left really very little to the imagination. With each step, Havelock could see the muscles flexing in the commander’s shapely thighs. 

When they waltzed past Havelock, he raised his glass at Vimes who glared back at him before Sybil whirled him out of sight to the other end of the room, her corseted bosom pressing against the shiny breastplate. 

It was a shame, the Patrician thought, that Vimes had not worn the purple cloak today that traditionally went with the ensemble. The dark red and purple would frame the golden metal nicely, especially if Vimes were to lie back on the cloak, maybe on a bed with black silk bedsheets. Maybe someone would have to go on their knees to help him unlace the boots and pull them off him. Slowly. One at a time. 

That same someone could trace the muscles in those beautiful legs through those damn distracting tights with their mouth, leaving a dark trail, soaking the fabric especially where they would lovingly place possessive bites. 

They would avoid the telltale bulge, no matter how enticing, making Vimes squirm instead. The commander would push his hips forward, lips pressed in a firm line because he would rather die than beg with words, but the rest of him would speak a different language. Havelock was good at languages. He had studied them at the Assassins’ Guild. It had been a thorough education. 

Crawling on top and straddling the commander would follow, still carefully avoiding where he wanted to be touched most. If someone was thusly inclined, they could reach for the top of the breath plate and haul Vimes upwards. Mouths hovering only an inch apart, long fingers could undo the buckles and rip the golden metal off him. 

Would the tunic have a laced collar? Probably not. So it would be easy to simply order the commander to raise his arms and strip it off him, revealing his battle-shaped body, inch by inch. Each scar would be traced and worshipped until finally - _finally_ \- and with great pleasure, the tights and undergarments would be peeled off, leaving the commander naked and glorious on the purple coat. What a sight! 

“Sir. Sir? _Sir_!” Hissed Vimes. Havelock blinked. Sam was standing right in front of him, fully dressed of course and looking like a storm cloud. 

“Ah. Commander, splendid evening.”

“Is it?” Vimes asked sourly. “You’ve been staring at nothing for five minutes with that faraway expression you get when…” Sam let the sentence trail off and gave him a meaningful look instead. 

“Was I? My word, maybe I should call it a night.” He stared at Sam.

“Maybe,” Vimes agreed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. 

After a glance at Lady Sybil, who just raised her glass at him before she resumed her chat with Lady Venturi at the other end of the room, Vetinari turned his attention back to Sam. 

“Commander, I was wondering whether I could detain you a little longer.”

Sam licked his lips. He, too, looked at his wife who gave him a nod. 

“Maybe.”

Havelock smiled. “Splendid. Shall we go?” 

As they walked to the exit, Vetinari asked, “Incidentally, did you bring that purple cloak tonight?”

The End 


End file.
